


which way to bend

by 2liga



Category: Football RPF
Genre: But mostly porn, M/M, Plot What Plot/Porn Without Plot, Porn with Feelings, Rimming, Unrealistic expectations for maneuverability on a sofa, captain kink...kinda
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-03-27
Updated: 2016-03-27
Packaged: 2018-05-29 09:40:38
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,518
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/6369790
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/2liga/pseuds/2liga
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>It would be a lie to say that Sergio had forgotten just how nicely he fit into Iker’s arms, but he had definitely missed it.</p>
            </blockquote>





	which way to bend

**Author's Note:**

> Set during the first international break of the 15/16 season. 
> 
> Q: why does everything I write take place months in the past?  
> A: bc I write like a snail trekking uphill through molasses
> 
> It was originally going to be part of a longer piece but it’s been sitting in my WIP folder for six months and I just wanted it up and out! So if it seems like there’s some incomplete plotting going on in the beginning, that would be why.
> 
>  
> 
> I'm posting this on Easter...sorry mum and jesus

 

 

 

International break is nice.

It’s also terrible, because everyone is supposed to put aside their club worries and focus on Spain, and this is of course a near impossible task, but it’s nice. Sergio always likes seeing his national team mates, especially at the beginning of the season when the usual rivalries are mostly quiet.

This time, however, it’s a little bit different because this time when he arrives at the Bernabeu for the first training session he’s scanning the grounds for someone who a few months ago he would probably have been carpooling with. This time it’s a little bit different because he hasn’t seen Iker since July.

Only a month, sure, but he can’t even remember the last time he hadn’t seen Iker in over a month. The idea that these stretches apart were only going to get longer was a prickly one, a piece of gravel stuck in his shoe that he didn’t want to shake out and examine just yet. He’d let it dig into his sole a while longer.

He looks around and spots Iker- talking to Iniesta with his back turned and Sergio wants to sneak up and grab him around the waist or something equally ludicrous and cheesy but Iker is already turning and meeting Sergio’s eyes, ruining his plans for maximum Hallmark Moment but otherwise making everything else infinitely better because Iker is smiling, his best smile that he only brings out on certain occasions and Sergio is walking over (okay, _power_ walking but still not running, it _has_ only been a month, he’ll save the running for the spring when it’ll have been a long winter and Madrid’s fortunes will have had more time to rise and fall and with them, his mood accordingly) with his arms outstretched and Iker steps towards him and lets himself embrace and be embraced.

It would be a lie to say that Sergio had forgotten just how nicely he fit into Iker’s arms, but he had definitely missed it.

 

 

 

“You moved the couch,” Iker comments, dropping his training bag and glancing around the living room.

“Yeah, about two weeks ago.” Sergio replies absently from the kitchen, sifting through the Tupperware leftovers in the fridge in search of the beer he knows is buried somewhere in the back. There’s no response and he looks over his shoulder to see Iker leaning against the wall, an odd expression on his face.

Sergio frowns. “Iker? Something up?”

Iker shrugs and straightens himself, a small almost self-deprecating smile playing about one corner of his mouth even while the other corner is still twisted down sadly. “Ah, nothing. It’s just. Things are already changing, right? Even just the little things. I used to come over here so often I knew every inch of this place, same as my own home. But in a year or two I’ll come over during the break and have to ask you where you’re keeping the glasses.”

Sergio steps away from the fridge. “Iker...”

Iker laughs. “I mean, it’s stupid but. Still. The little things. And eventually they pile up and then it’s the big things that are changing.”

They’re both silent for a moment, and Sergio begins to piece together what it is that Iker’s nervous about. _The big things._ Like people, Sergio supposes.

“The glasses are still in the cabinet to the left of the sink.” He says, quietly, crossing over to where Iker is standing. “And I’m still here.”

Iker meets his eyes and Sergio can see now, the worry there. “You’re here now,” he says quietly and Iker has so rarely let Sergio know when he is afraid that Sergio almost doesn’t recognise the emotion cluttering his voice, “but for how long?”

“Iker, always. Always.” Sergio tells him, not knowing how to make him understand that he’d said it so many times and it was still true. It had never been just a political move or a media stunt but the only truth he knew how to tell: _Iker Casillas. Siempre, siempre._

Iker swallows. “Last time. Before I left for Porto. I asked you for something.”

Yes, you did, Sergio thinks, remembering Iker reaching out for something he couldn’t have anymore and finding Sergio instead. You asked and I gave it willingly. Didn’t you understand then?

“But I was being selfish. I’m- I’m _sorry,_ and I think you know, it wasn’t about you then, not entirely. It was about me, and everything that was happening and I’m sorry. I- I shouldn’t have taken advantage of you. Not like that.”

“I’m not sorry,” Sergio says sharply. There’s an edge of anger in his voice. _No, don’t do this now, don’t take it all back._ He doesn’t mind sharing Iker with Madrid. He can share. He doesn’t have to have anything big and grand. Sharing means at least having Iker in some way.

“No, I didn’t mean-” Iker says quickly, “I don’t regret what happened, I don’t...I don’t regret sleeping with you.” It’s the first time he’s said it aloud, what it was that they had done the night Iker had been shown the door. The words carry all the weight of the humid summer air, landing on Sergio’s shoulders with a nearly tangible blow.

“I don’t regret you,” Iker is saying. “Only _why_ it happened.” He stops. “I want to do things properly. Can I have a second chance? Just you and me.” He smiles thinly. “All baggage has been left behind, I promise.”

It takes Sergio a minute to understand. Then it clicks. “ _Iker.”_

“If you don’t want to, I understand, and I’m sorry I asked I just thought that maybe-”

But he never gets to finish his sentence. Sergio finally gets his Hallmark Moment and manages to cut him off by smothering Iker in his arms and kissing the words, the doubts, the restraints off of his lips.

And Iker _melts_ into him in a way that Sergio finds very satisfying indeed, closing his eyes and sinking into the kiss.

“I thought you knew before you left.” Sergio whispers against Iker’s lips. “I thought I’d shown you how I felt.”

“ _Sergio_ ,” Iker breathes back, his hands coming up to frame Sergio’s face and trailing down his shoulders, his arms, his back to circle around his waist and pull him closer, “God, _Sergio-”_

And he’s walking Sergio backwards now, backwards until the backs of his knees hit the couch (the couch, the fucking couch, Sergio is going to move the couch back to where it used to be first thing tomorrow, he never wants to see Iker doubt his place here with Sergio ever again, especially over something as stupid as the fucking couch) and he pushes Sergio down to sit there and then - _oh fuck, Sergio thinks-_  Iker slides to his knees in front of him, settling between Sergio’s thighs.

He reaches for the button of Sergio’s jeans.

“Iker. You don’t have to.” Sergio tells him, voice choked, because last time Iker had kissed him and yes, Iker had fucked him but it had been late into that heavy humid night after a considerable amount of alcohol had been consumed and Iker had been lost, trying to reach out blindly for something he could call his own even as it all slipped away and Sergio had presented himself as an anchor. And so maybe Sergio has been barely daring to hope for something like this during the past week leading up to the international break but there had still been a haunt of guilt in Iker’s eyes when he’d said _just you and me_ and Sergio doesn’t want to press. He doesn’t want Iker to reach beyond some invisible line just because he feels as though he’s taken too much from Sergio without giving.

As if Sergio could ever even give enough to make up for all the things that Iker has done for him, throughout years and years.

“Now _I’m_ the one not making things clear,” Iker murmurs, easing Sergio’s jeans down his hips, leaving him in briefs that are quickly being soaked through from his already-leaking cock. “I said I wanted to do things properly. I want to do everything that I would have done if I hadn’t been so wrapped up in myself.” Iker slides closer, nosing his way into the bend of Sergio’s knee, his breath against the skin sending tremors all down Sergio’s spine. “And believe me,” he says softly, laying a line of kisses up Sergio’s thigh, “I want to do this. I’ve _wanted_ to do this.” He looks up at Sergio. “So can I?”

Sergio nods shakily. Iker is gazing up at him from between his legs and he doesn’t quite trust himself to speak.

Iker lays a kiss on the head of Sergio’s cock where it strains against tight fabric. Sergio sucks in a breath and bites back at a moan as Iker begins to mouth at his erection, writhing at the feeling of the warm heat through the cloth. Iker reaches up and gently eases the elastic waistband down Sergio’s hips to his ankles, tugging it free and dropping the briefs aside. There’s already a trail of precome smeared across the joint of Sergio’s thigh where his cock had been pressed against his skin and Iker sucks at the soft, sensitive skin at the crease between leg and torso, licking away the thin shining streaks.

A shudder twists its way down Sergio’s back and he spreads his legs wider, waiting for Iker to take what he wants. Iker has other ideas.

“What do you want me to do?” he asks softly. He’s still on his knees, his mouth kissed deliciously red. He’s looking up at Sergio as though he has the answers to the world and Sergio barely knows what to do with it. He feels thrown off balance.

He wants to be told what to do. The shift leaves Sergio stranded, but suddenly more turned on than he can remember being in a long time. “Iker...”

“Sergio.” Iker reaches up and tangles their fingers together. “Remember I once told you I’d always be _blanco_ , no matter where I went?”

Sergio nods, wordlessly. His body already knows where Iker is going with this but his brain can’t quite believe it yet.

“I was being serious. And Sergio? You’re the captain of Real Madrid. You’re my captain.” Iker’s eyes are dark. “Tell me what to do.”

There’s an almost painful light-headedness swooping over him. He’s Iker’s captain. _He’s Iker’s captain._ There’s a heat low in his stomach. Iker is sitting beneath him, waiting patiently. Waiting for Sergio to tell him what to do, how to use him.

“Can you.” He swallows, throat dry with the _want_ that is rapidly spiralling through him. “Can you- sit? On the couch?”

Iker obeys, rising gracefully and sitting beside Sergio. His legs are slightly spread and Sergio can see Iker’s erection pressed hard against his jeans. Sergio turns to face Iker, stepping over to straddle his lap. Iker makes a small sound when Sergio sits, his ass rubbing against the bulge in Iker’s jeans, and Sergio can’t help but grind down slightly. Iker groans.

“Iker. Could you..”

“Just tell me, Sese.” Iker whispers it. “Tell me what to do.”

 “Lick me out,” Sergio says, voice a little shaky, and then he orders. “I want you to eat me out, I want to _feel_ you, your tongue, your fingers.”

Iker looks up at Sergio with something like desperation. “Yeah,” he breathes, reaching around to caress the backs of Sergio’s thighs, sending shudders up his spine with the light touch. “Yeah, Sergio, god yes.”

Iker slides down on the couch and turns behind him, Sergio balanced slightly precariously on his knees above him, trying to find balance on the cushions. Iker noses up into the line of Sergio’s ass, spreading him open so he can get closer. Sergio can feel his warm breath before Iker laps at the puckered rim of muscle and darts his tongue inside. Sergio gasps and arches his back, the feeling of Iker’s tongue momentarily whiting out all other sensations. He can tell that this is something Iker likes doing and wonders briefly who had been the one to introduce him to it, before Iker licks farther inside and he stops thinking altogether. His thighs are trembling with the sudden effort of holding himself up as Iker curls his tongue along the skin behind Sergio’s balls, the scruff of his unshaven cheek scraping at Sergio’s inner thigh, licking a hot wet stripe across his hole.

“I’ve thought about this before,” Iker murmurs, his breath in puffs teasing against the crease of Sergio’s ass. His words are hot on Sergio’s skin. “I’ve wondered how you would taste.”

Sergio’s vision goes dizzy and he doesn’t get to respond because Iker is really fucking his tongue into him now, sucking at the rim of his ass and rolling his balls between his hands, tugging lightly.

Sergio’s hole is soft and slicked open when Iker finally pulls back to slide two fingers inside and starts gently scissoring them, adding a third finger so Sergio can feel himself really stretch around Iker’s hand, wide and sure. He can hear small sounds being forced out of the back of his throat each time Iker pulses his fingers, and he can hear Iker murmuring little things, not quite discernable, still running his tongue along the skin where Sergio is hungrily tight around his hand. He feels light-headed, dazed. It’s all too surreal: Iker wants him, Iker wants Sergio and Iker wants Sergio to tell him, to give him permission-

Behind him, Iker is pressing hot, needy kisses along the ridges of Sergio’s spine and fumbling with the zipper of his jeans in haste.

“Sese, baby, I want to- can I-”

“Yes,” Sergio gasps, “Yeah, Iker, _fuck_ , anything, anything-”

Iker manages to peel off his jeans and sits back to face him again, guiding Sergio down into his lap. Sergio feels loose and empty and wanting for a moment before he feels the insistent push of Iker’s cock against the line of his ass, full and hard and Sergio is practically writhing for it.

“Sergio-”

“Fuck me,” Sergio tells him, voice trembling but still ordering. “Want you to fuck me, Iker. You fucked me goodbye when you left and now you’re going to fuck me hello.” He leans over, reaches down to his trousers on the floor and fishes out his wallet.

“Of course you’d have a condom in your wallet.”

Sergio grins wickedly and pulls out two small foil squares. “And lube. You know me.”

“Yeah,” Iker breathes out, with endless fondness, hands caressing Sergio’s waist, “I do.”

Sergio leans down for a kiss, fingers deftly ripping open the condom and then the lube. “Watch me,” he murmurs against Iker’s lips. “Watch me.”

He empties the lube over his fingers, coating them liberally before reaching behind himself. He bites his lip as he presses through the ring of muscle and he hears Iker’s breath catch in his throat.

Even after Iker’s attentions, Sergio can still feel himself tighten again and he shivers to think of Iker inside him, his size intimidating regardless of all preparation.  He shifts back to wrap his lube-slick fingers around Iker, sliding down the length of his cock, slippery with lube and precome beading from the tip.

Satisfied, Sergio lifts himself, allowing the head to press up against his hole, not yet inside. Iker’s hips jump ever so slightly and Sergio can see the desire in his eyes and in the bite of his teeth against his lower lip.

“Don’t move,” Sergio tells Iker, the electric unbalance of having control over his captain –and despite everything Iker is _his captain,_ always _his captain_ \- still zipping down his spine. “Don’t move until I tell you to. Until I say you can.”

Iker nods wordlessly.

“Okay.” Sergio braces one of his hands against the back of the couch, the other on Iker’s shoulder, and slowly lowers himself down. The fat head of Iker’s cock pushes into him and Sergio makes a low, involuntary sound between a gasp and a moan that makes Iker’s hips tremble, but he stays still as told, letting Sergio move himself until he’s sitting nearly flush in Iker’s lap. His knees are bent somewhat uncomfortably on either side of Iker’s thighs but Sergio doesn’t feel it, his entire mind wiped with the sensation of Iker inside him, thick and hot.

He’s almost unbearably full, stretched obscenely around the base of Iker’s cock and Sergio is suddenly glad that he had told Iker not to move, not only for reasons of control but because he doesn’t think he could take it if Iker had.

But at the same time he wants, in a sudden insane desire, to stay there forever, with Iker slotted up inside him like he’s home, and all the while looking at Sergio with those glazed-over eyes, his pupils blown and dazzled.

Iker’s skin is searing hot wherever Sergio touches it. At the press of his thighs against Iker’s and the grip of his hand on Iker’s shoulder.

“Sergio,” Iker says, his voice ragged already. “Sergio.”

“I know, _fuck-”_ Sergio knows what Iker’s going to say. It’s too much, it’s not enough. Sergio forces his already-cramping knees to move, levering himself up halfway off of Iker’s dick experimentally before sinking back down. He feels Iker brush up against the spot inside of him, setting off a shower of sparks and Sergio suddenly needs, _needs,_ Iker to move.

“O-okay _,_ ” he manages, hitching his hips. “Iker, _move.”_

Iker doesn’t need to be told twice. He releases the barely-held tension in his body, rutting up into Sergio so hard Sergio feels his back arch automatically, curving in line with the direction of Iker’s thrusts, deep and rhythmic and rolling from his hips at a steady pace. He fucks deep, so deep inside that with every other thrust the sound of Sergio’s ass smacking against Iker’s thighs matches the gasps being fucked out of him.

Iker is quiet save for his harsh breathing but Sergio wants to hear him. He wants to hear Iker curse and moan and tell Sergio what he looks like, how he feels. “Talk to me,” Sergio bites out, reaching to scrape his nails against Iker’s chest.

Iker’s eyes are liquid heat. “You want me to talk to you, baby? You want me to tell you how good you look like this, riding my cock?”

“Yes,” Sergio gasps, moving his hips in earnest in sync with Iker, wanting to feel him deeper. “Yes.”

“So pretty like this,” Iker says, breathing the words in scalding air across Sergio’s chest, his neck, his cheek. He bruises a kiss into the hollow of his collarbone. “Sergio, _Sergio,”_

Sergio can barely think, can barely breathe, every nerve in his body electric as Iker thrusts up into him, faster now and slipping into a ragged, desperate pace. “Come,” he gasps, nails digging fiercely into Iker’s shoulders. “Iker, _come_ ,”

Iker obeys. His hips stutter and he comes with a choked moan, fucking up once, twice, before collapsing boneless against the couch. Sergio takes over the movement again, riding Iker’s softening cock with abandon, fucking himself in time with Iker’s hard breathing, over-sensitive and over-stimulated and he feels himself teeter on the edge before coming _hard,_ spurting in thick strings across both their chests. Iker shudders, Sergio clenching around him to milk out the last of his orgasm, a dizzying wave whiting out his senses and leaving him flattened against the shore of the sofa.

They remain still for a moment, seared together with the heat of it all, Sergio sitting in Iker’s lap with his spent cock pressed between them. He can already feel he’s going to be sore in the morning and it’s with reluctance that he gingerly raises himself up and off of Iker. He feels used and heavy, sleepiness already weighing him down.

Sergio makes to remove the used condom but Iker brushes his hand away. “No, I’ll get it.” He gently tips Sergio over onto the couch, rising to strip off the condom himself and drop it into the bin in the kitchen. Sergio can hear the sound of running water and Iker comes back with a damp tea towel, wiping the come off his own stomach before sitting back down on the edge of the sofa and gently sponging off Sergio. The cloth isn’t cold but it still feels cool against Sergio’s overheated skin and he squirms at the contact, goose bumps rising on his stomach.

“Stop wriggling,” Iker says. His tone is amused and Sergio doesn’t think Iker has noticed, but he’s slipped back into his captain voice. Just a subtle thread of steeliness running along the edges as he tells Sergio to be still. He’s missed that voice all of a sudden, and despite it Sergio disobeys, pushing himself up on his elbows and cutting off Iker’s annoyed click of the tongue with a kiss. Soft and sure, and Iker’s unspoken reprimand dies into a smile against Sergio’s lips.

 

 


End file.
